


Redcliffe and Amaranthine

by Reyavie



Series: Of a lady tabris like any other [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, One-Shot Collection, Sequel, Unfinished, changing points of view
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21783454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyavie/pseuds/Reyavie
Summary: Sequel to Denerim and Rainesfere. The Blight is over, she is alive and he is still around, still the same, still persistent. A story by snippets.
Relationships: Teagan Guerrin/Female Tabris
Series: Of a lady tabris like any other [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/628406
Kudos: 3





	1. confrontation.

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving of an old story that, sadly, might remain unfinished. Still, it has a few more moments I wished to add to the original story

**001.** _Confrontation_ **  
**

* * *

She has been dancing around him. It hadn't been like this before, not until the King had come between them and attempted to make his reasons known. No, this is different. This is expected and unexpected at the same time and Maker knows he dislikes it. This tension between them, between minds, bodies and the barriers that had been but that he had destroyed on that day on the terrace. The day when it all ended and new stories could take place.

Teagan knows this isn't about Alistair. Isn't about Eamon. It isn't even about her family and people, everyone that is going to despise her – _or, at least, to comment and point fingers because he is a human and steadfast in his choice for a companion_. It's about stupidity – _all hers_ – and lack of decision. And this frustrates him.

He is a man, a noble man. He knows he must give his lady time and be patient. And, in a world where peace was the norm and life was easy, he would feel free to give her all the time needed and desired. He would walk closer but not expect more, not wish more. But the reality is different. There's a war and heartbreak, the necessity to come closer without being aware of how much she'll accept before she pulls back.

Makes him wish to be elven. Makes him wish for her to be human. Makes him want to stalk her during day and night, force himself to rest and constrain his mind with all the calm he can summon. He can wait, he can. And it's preposterous to think he cannot, to think he'd rather be by her side until she says yes or she says no. This wait will surely harm him more than any negative reply she might utter. He can wait, he just doesn't _want_ to.

He takes his time though. His tasks are many and he takes his time with each and every one. It is easy. The King is far too interested in getting him away from the female warden, if only for the sake of his sanity. His brother, that one would have him sent to Orlais if he was sure it would bear any fruit. But it doesn't and wouldn't, so the man satisfies himself with veiled comments and insinuations, implied insults about everything from shape and mentality to honor and duty. Everything _implied_ because anything more would make their relationship strain and Eamon is not stupid. He will not lose everything in order to stop this.

Teagan allows the distractions. The Banns are eager to please him and he accepts it. Women realize he is a bachelor and future Arl and act accordingly – under the good auspices of his brother, no doubt. And he accepts it because _everything_ is both tool and distraction and everything, _just about everything_ , is better than look to the corner of the room where she sits, surrounded by those who have followed her thus far. When his arm touches someone else, her eyes narrow. When he comes too close, her attention pulls towards someone else, something that will not cause anger. Because this is annoyance, perhaps even jealousy. It wafts through the air every time and this, he also accepts eagerly as reassurance.

And so they dance since the Archdemon, tiptoe around each other. It is enough to make even Eamon hope for an appropriate ending for this story. Stupid really, _doesn't he knows his own brother_? Frustration doesn't equal hopelessness.

He takes his time until he can take no more.

It is morning, early morning and an important one, the end of a story. In this day, knights are greeted and heroes rewarded. It is a good moment, or supposed to be. It is exactly why he searches for her, crossing the hallways without thought or permission, not stopping even when the door in front of his eyes is closed.

Tasha paces inside, from one side to the room like a woman possessed. Not arranged as appropriate, her face contorted like she is about to be tortured and not honored, hair in disarray and armor thrown everywhere but on her body. The man takes a brief moment to notice that this isn't her normal armor either, decorated in symbols which had been belonged to the Wardens a century before.

"Teagan," she starts, speaking while the pieces of the new armor refuse to be attached properly. "Should you not. Speak to me? Instead of standing there in silence."

The man sits instead while she voices complaints, doesn't move, doesn't blink, sitting on his throne as if his servant has just arrived. When his head turns to her, he has that serious touch to his eyes, the one others are used to see. The Archdemon hasn't changed him, just her.

"Would you finally reply to me?" Teagan asks, rather simply.

Tasha stops, understands his meaning and ignores it completely. "You have yet to ask anything."

"I did before."

Is this for serious? Is this actually happening? Pessimism wars against amusement, against surprise, against everything that this woman has been doing to his life. She had been a friend, that he is sure. But now what? She had been _just_ a friend but then, _but then_ he acted. He had been the man by her side while she mourned someone who none would mourn, while she mourned herself who didn't understand why she was standing and breathing. That is important. That _matters_ , doesn't it? There are moments and actions which make a person important, which change a life. And he did that. He changed her in that moment - or so he hopes.

"A clearly thoughtless question," she comments, frowning as the armor denies her.

Idiot, idiot, this is an idiotic woman – _a dark eyebrow just faintly raised against a furrowed brow_ – who does she think him as? He is a man, one in the truest sense of the word. He has honor, learned at his father's knee, in his mother's breast. He makes no offer he will not follow. And frustration wars and grows and he wants to shout but does nothing. Because that he also learned and his control is paramount to everything.

"I remember everything I said and nothing was thoughtless."

There's no composure except for his. Tasha continues to pace and the armor refuses to keep where she wishes. She could request his help but the whole subject is about how she doesn't request it. Ever. And so she paces while he controls himself again and again as the stupidity of this discussion hits him.

"I am a Warden," she stops and declares. Again. Like a statement of war.

And he nods tiredly, as if it's bluntly obvious which, sadly, it is. "I am highly aware of that, Tasha."

"I will be expected to," she continues without bothering to pause, her feet taking her to her original position and then back again. _Right and left, wall to wall_. Her thoughts are clear in her distress. What is a Warden when there is no Blight? What will she do? Follow through the Dead Roads like the Legion of the Dead? Train others? Fight and fight and fight some more while the rest of the country rests safely inside four walls? "Continue my task. Stay in Denerim and look after my people. Repair the order. Help Alistair." _And recovery doesn't fit in these plans. Neither does a companion, nor children, nor a home_. "You asked on an impulse, Teagan. You know this. You _understand_."

She half-kneels in front of him and one hand grips his like a lifeline. This close, her eyes look scared, almost frightened like he has never seen them, not even in the eve of battle. Is it fear of the unknown? A battle one does not have to win, weakness to give into each other, frailty in acceptance? Teagan cannot be sure. He knows more than her though. He remembers a moment in which words weren't important, actions were. Lips against lips, uncomfortable metal between them, those matter and those he remembers. If she was safe, then in the aftermath, why not in the many aftermaths which will follow? Because he knows, he _understands_.

"You are being ridiculous," and fearful, of him who would never harm her and his frustration knows no bounds. "I have seen you tiptoeing around me since the King has visited and, frankly, it is unnecessary. I did not speak freely. I did not speak without thinking. This was the result of months deliberating, of months thinking about what was right and what was wrong, about this would mean, both to me and you and Rainesfere. But if you want my logic, I shall tell you so."

"Do you know my brother is aware of my inclination? Aware and frankly against it." He continues, staring at nothing but her. In between her worry, he sees a spark of dry amusement. "So is the King. So is my sister-in-law and, from what I have seen, your father. Your cousin does not like me much. Neither does your male cousin, from what little he has said. So, our families are against it."

Her lips twist, _see? I'm right._

"But I'm finding that, the more everyone says the reasons for us not to, the more I wish to." Fingers against her lips halt the next words, no, _this is not childish_ , this makes sense. "Because none of them gives me the reason why it will work and leave me to think it by myself. Such as we understand each other, such as you accept me, such as I love you."

He tugs on the hand which he still holds, slow and deliberate, something else in his eyes that is hardly cold logic. An arm snakes around her waist, pulls her against him and the barriers break and crumble to the floor while she's pushed against a hard chest, breathing and living unlike cold metal. She is so much smaller, he realizes yet again, not stronger but still strong. And this is comfortable, embarrassing and comfortable for them both for all different sorts of reasons. "Will you run from me?" He whispers, forehead against forehead, familiarity all over the action. "Because, I assure you, I can chase as well any Warden."

Barriers are comfortable but they are gone and he cannot let go of this closeness, ridiculous or not, confusing or not, because it is right. It is not a game anymore and she's not the sole knight on the chessboard. This close, they are finally the same, a man and a woman, his smile permanent, the world outside at peace.

It is a beginning like any other. Better, even.

"Will you marry me?" Her voice speaks finally certain, faint red coloring the lightest frown which is steadily replaced by hope.

Teagan smiles, his boyish kind of smile which is, without his awareness, usually her undoing.

"If I must."

And his world falls into place.

* * *

_He waits in the crowd while she is applauded, praised as the hero she became. Sees her meet Alistair on the top of those stairs with a smile and happiness, answering whatever sarcastic replies with a grinning expression that becomes her. Then she leans and whispers something and the King's face says he knows about her next attachment. His eyes search for him._

_And that little part of him, which is not perfect nor completely spiteful nor completely kind, causes him to stand straighter in satisfaction._


	2. demand.

**002.** _Demand._ **  
**

* * *

The elf doesn't reply to him. In any fashion. She remains still, large blue eyes impossibly open, unfocused and unblinking, pursed lips and he can swear she has gone paler – or perhaps that is just a trick of the eyes just as the two bright spots of red in cheeks. Her hands, those have closed. Tightly. Very tightly, white skin against blood red.

For a moment, Eamon believes the woman is going to punch him, older man or not.

But she doesn't. In fact, she says nothing to him at all, barely bothers to look at his face except with something that's alike to disgust and her hands shake. Then she walks away.

Eamon frowns in her stead, the curiosity he cannot kill guiding his footsteps. The elf doesn't stop in any room. She is all sharp moves and gestures, banging the doors as they close behind her, pushing them off their hinges even with a badly disguised horrible humor. She walks and he follows without question until the nobleman recognizes the hallways, the rooms and the person.

She'll say it's over, he thinks. It's the logical thing to do, it's the right thing to do, the obvious path. The only action to take. She'll say it and leave, to Amaranthine or the Fade, he cares not. She'll leave now that she's not longer needed or wanted. The reasons are too much for him to voice and she knows them, having survived in an Alienage as she has. Elves and humans don't belong together. Commoners and nobles do not walk in the same paths, nevermind in the same house.

"Your brother has demanded something of me," the elf begins, eerily calm, oddly so considering the circumstances – _the anger which clouds anyone's judgment and closes her hands in tight fists_. "As you were also mentioned in this conversation, I believed this reply should be done in front of the both of you. To end this discussion once and for all."

Teagan doesn't seem annoyed. In fact, he looks resigned, a warrior for whom the battle has finally ended and rest is right on the next corner. Good, Eamon concludes. This subject is about to end, closed between these four walls never to be touched upon again. Good, because the Arling that he rules will not be his forever, his age weights on his mind and body and Connor is locked away in the Tower. Teagan will rule, a good strong ruler like both him and his father.

He should have known this woman would be difficult. He should have known she would do the exact opposite of what he wanted. He _should have known_ she never quits, never turns away from a fight, from a battle before she is right in the front and facing whatever comes her way, the _stupid_ stubborn _wench_.

The elf says nothing for a long moment. Instead, she walks to his brother, hands raising to press carefully on the back of his neck, presses until his confused face is right next to hers and there is really no question to what she wants or what she is about to do. And then she's kissing him. Slowly, strongly, deeply, just lightly bellow violently, hands moving to touch tresses, careless and intruding – _and dearest Maker, dear Andraste and all her followers, that is his brother she is mauling_. Though, truth to be told, Teagan seems to care little about that fact, hands wondering definitely not of their own volition, settling comfortably against her waist after a moment.

They take their time, forgetting he is there – _not caring_ – remaining near each other even when the contact has been severed. Forehead against forehead, a smile that is as honest as it is innocent in the trace of his brother's face that he is able to see. They whisper, she frowns, he smiles – _smirks, mocks_ – and their companionship seems almost real instead of pure representation for their audience.

"Better?"

"Yes. I am sorry." She truly doesn't seem to be. "I will be leaving for the…"

"Alienage." The younger man kisses her cheek gently, an almost brotherly caress which lacks all innocence after the previous display. "I will join you there. We should speak."

The woman's head lowers in assent and she turns in his brother's arms, without a look, without a comment to the man she just attacked, without a cure for the disease she is causing. _Foolish, thoughtless woman._ Eamon has no words left and she leaves.

His brother stays. Calm and smiling like a true idiot.

"Feel free to make her angry more often."


	3. compensation.

**003.** _Compensation._

* * *

Fergus had lived for revenge.

A man's house is his palace. A warrior's house is the one untouched place, the one location in the world which is always in peace, where no fighters wander and where no blade is needed. It is paradise, Heaven, whatever one wishes to call it. It is anything and everything related to protection and safety, to happiness and care. To what could precious things be entrusted to if to that one place?

Highever had always been such place to him. Fergus remembers his childhood in clear pictures. The rivers and fields, the stony walls which he tried time and time again to climb – _the same ones his son loved so much_ – the gardens, his mother's voice, his wife's touch, his father's calling, his brother's laughter loud, louder than anything else and his son, his son running to him, the small arms around his neck, _father, can I have a sword?_ He loved them, _loves, loves them, loves because they're still not gone_ , keeps them all in his mind every day, every moment.

He lives for revenge.

The stories precede his path. As the warrior tried to get back on his feet, whispers of his burned home reached first. When he managed to walk five feet without passing out, they spoke of warriors, of Wardens who crossed the country with armies at their heels. The moment he manages to find a horse, to keep himself upright and wandering, the second he passes the Capital's Gates and he's welcomed, not by his father or Cailan, he is told about Howe and the woman.

He lived for revenge, how could she take that from him? Howe was their friend, their companion, the uncle who was not because he lacked the blood, lacked the similarity and connection. But he was family nevertheless. To know of his betrayal made his heart shatter, once, twice, one thousand times until every shard could barely be perceived. To think of his demise was what made him stand, walk, search, return when all he wanted was to have perished in Ostagar with everyone else. Death seemed too merciful when compared to the alternative.

So, obviously, he shifted his desire for revenge into hatred for the one who had taken it away. Childishly, stupidly and foolishly but it sated his heart, it covered up wounds and he could breathe better.

One elf, he was told. One elf and two humans, a Qunari and all of them unknown, with no reason to do something as vile as murder a man in its own home.

* * *

_He meets her first, of course. She is the leader of this foolish band, the one who was behind the sword and the blade, the one who killed and who tends to draw attention._

" _You are the Warden?" He asks, knowing the answer before the question is made, watching the pointed ears, small small stature and who else could carry armor as a second skin with those traits? "Tabris. The one who has saved the queen."_

_The elf stares, analyses him, takes her time to reply. Then nods._

" _You killed Howe."_

_He hates her for that._

" _Why?"_

_Why didn't she let him to me? She didn't have anything to do with this situation, she didn…_

" _Because I had to."_

_What kind of reply is that?_

" _As much as I would have wanted to, I just had to."_

_The human doesn't speak, stares, analyses her and finds his own answer._

" _I see."_

* * *

Fergus is told later on. Slavery had been made common in the Alienage and several elves had been sent to Tevinter. He sees her with other eyes, hatred melding into understanding, eventually changing before settling on firm dislike.

* * *

_The King doesn't seem to believe he is alive. His eyes open extremely wide and so does his mouth, allowing entrance to whatever bug which chooses to pass by. He looks slightly off. Like a bum on some random corner of the city. Or, if he wants to be less spiteful to the Therin family, just a man who is forced to grow up when he never wished to do so._

_He wants to be spiteful nevertheless, remembering Cailan and his foolishness, remembering the family he left behind and who shouldn't have been alone._

_There's an urge to ask if he had been there. To hear a confirmation or a description, he is not sure._

" _Cousland, right? The elder?"_

_But he stares at the youthful face, the traces that are part of his family and that, distantly, are part of his. He remembers his brother and puts his interrogation for another time, another person._

_Young ones shouldn't have to remember massacre_. _And this King is nothing more than a boy with a crown._

* * *

They tiptoe around him, nobles and warriors alike. They stare at his shadow as if he's going to jump at any given moment, as if he's going to harm them for not helping, for not being there. Foolish notion, indeed. He wasn't there either so there is hardly a reason to blame them for their inaction. For their cowardice. For hiding in their holes, deep and dark, stare only at themselves and their possessions, disgusting cowards. He'd be back in his teyrn – _his father's, his father's and not his, Maker –_ if he had the choice. _Couslands always follow their duty._ He sucks it up, raises his hand and polishes his smile for all those who seem to deem it necessary to bother him.

The man has one last person to see before the matter is settled.

* * *

_Loghain barely sees him move, experienced warrior that he is. One second, they are sitting side by side, hands resting on the polished table. On the other, Fergus is moving, both listening to steel through flesh and wood and it doesn't help, it doesn't bring closure, it changes nothing. It does bring some degree of satisfaction to see red, to hear the grunt of pain and see the weapon hit his target._

" _That is for them." He knows, he has been told. Loghain knew, he knew and did nothing. No help and no vengeance. "Be grateful I will not finish."_

_There's a moment of silence, nicely used by the former general to get rid of the small dagger. His eyes never leave the younger man though his face is contorted in a grimace. Perfect._

" _Why?" He asks._

_Without watching, the Cousland knows he is smiling, bright, polite, a perfect actor as his wife would once tell him. It is not happiness behind his actions. But he can pretend._

" _The warden isn't foolish. She has found the perfect punishment. Live long."_

* * *

Howe is dead.

Fergus settles for the next best thing.


	4. soul.

**004.** _Soul._ **  
**

* * *

It's over. It is over. _Over_. The Blight has been stopped, the Darkspawn have returned to the Dark Roads, the Archdemon lies dead and vanquished as well as its legacy. It is over, finally. Sten allows the word to pass through his lips slowly as if caressing it, tasting it. It tastes sweet, like red wine or the party which might – _just might_ – welcome him upon arrival. _It's over_. It means so much to him. No more fighting in this odd country, freedom, return home to where things make sense. It is the epilogue to a story, a truly epic one in which he was one of the main characters.

A good thing he is who and what he is. A human would already be drunk on the sheer idea of finishing such a creature. He knows better than that. The sole gesture he allows himself is a smile, faint and almost invisible when none is looking. Perhaps he should show it some time. With luck, it will shock them enough to keep inane questions where they belong. _Unsaid_.

"Herren, you are dealing with a priceless...no, you fools! You must." Whatever they must, the Qunari chooses to ignore in favor of the dragon. There are already men on each side, cutting and slicing, _destroying_ as it should be done. The old mage oversees the collection of blood, the smith yells about the right way to skin the dragon – as if the fool has actually seen such a specimen in his meager little life – and it's a true credit to his endurance that Sten has kept himself awake over the days which followed the battle. There is a sense of ending in every action and it's not something he has indulged often. There is little reason to keep himself going bar that.

"You! You there!"

There is, however, a great deal of reasons to ignore the smith. Sten remembers just one – _he is deadly annoying_ – before walking towards the great head, laying close and asleep. No one has touched it bar the Warden or even approached it – _afraid, perhaps, he understands_. It lies with its eyes closed, showered in blood and touches of water and something that looks like precious stones. They shine here and there when the lights hit them, the strangest green hint of color to it.

He kneels without even noticing, reaching out a calloused hand towards the fragments. Because they are fragments, glass or metal, he cannot be sure until he grasps the tiniest piece between slow fingers. It escapes once or twice, mocks and slips away making sure Sten understands what he's holding before he can analyze it properly.

Slipping and mocking, sharp and elusive. Blades are like their owners. Take Asala as example. Sturdy, trustworthy, simple and direct – _and perhaps huge_. Blades are more than a weapon, he learned and tried to impart in the ignorant elf. To a warrior, weapons are more than a tool, more than necessary. They are what air is to their bodies, soul and personality, everything which makes them _them_. He tries not to think about any kind of symbolism connected to the shattered pieces. It might make him bothered. Ludicrous to think of, even.

"Why are you losing time? This head must be severed and." There is a reason why Sten doesn't like the smith. He is good at what he does, yes. He enjoys rare materials and his craft changes to a part of one's body instead of a tool. He is also a fool, one who does not respect things which should be respected. All he can think about is this and all he knows is that his hand feels all too comfortable against the human's neck.

"Shut up."

He shuts up. _Thankfully_.

"You will leave to the other side of the creature." Sten plans things, _most of the time_. Right now, however, he has no idea of what he is about to say. Only that he should speak and there's this tiny touch of an idea on his mind which grows with every passing moment. It starts making sense the more he stares at the head, large eyes returning his gaze blankly, jeweled head where two souls died. "Wait for me. Do you understand?" A little shake. The human whines and complains but pales. Afraid, good. "Wait."

The best ideas don't make sense. A blade is one's soul. The Archdemon lies dead and it took something with it. And the Warden, the one who killed it, the one whose soul lies all around them wanders away, for all purposes dead or dying. A warrior cannot win without a sword. It cannot live without a soul, Sten believes. He will leave soon and the girl will be left behind carrying neither sword nor soul.

The Qunari kneels to the ground reverently and starts moving gently, with an analytical eye and precise hands. He does not rise for a long time. One piece at a time.

"Human," a voice strong enough to summon the fragile armorer, whether the man is afraid or not. "I have a task for you."

* * *

Sten leaves shortly after the ceremony which honors them all. It is odd to see him go after all this time, Tasha thinks, when the giant begins gripping his sparse baggage, the boat which will take him home already preparing to set sail. And Tasha feels sorry for that. Selfish. Wanting to keep him by her side because he is as much as part of _her_ Ferelden as Wynne, Zevran or Alistair. Maybe more. She already lost Morrigan to whatever Fate, she doesn't wish to rebuild her own country. As said, selfish.

But the qunari deserves his home, the scents he spoke of and the sea waves by the shore. What right does she have to demand anything?

"For you." A package is trust into her hands. Simply. Bluntly. Indubitably like him. Tasha swears she'll even miss the ridiculous way he doesn't show emotion, the stern expression as if facing a particularly foolish child.

She smiles up at him, equal parts curiosity and confusion, as careful fingers push the coarse fabric aside to find a sword. From the weight, she would wager it is made of dragonbone, Maker knows she has seen enough of it to last for a lifetime. Elven design, silver and a very faint green tinge to its interior, like water inside steel. The elf hasn't held a sword since the Archdemon. Grasping this one, however, makes her wish to smile and cry for whatever reason, feels like every finger fits around the hilt like it was made solely for them. _Peculiar_.

"You gave me my soul," he speaks and Asala peeks over his shoulder. "We return you yours."

"We?" Tasha twirls the blade around in absent practice, her arms testing the weapon that really doesn't seem foreign. She is so amazed – _happy even_ – that she never notices Sten's expression, almost a mirror of her own. Almost.

"We." Like equals, they stare at each other and it's likely this moment will never repeat itself. "He and I."

The sword in her hands feels like something known and welcome, precious beyond words. And, for the first time since she walked away from that roof, Tasha feels a warrior. Without his prompt, the woman turns on her heels, looks up, looks to where the city stands, no longer burning, a tall tower in shambles and a last roar in her ears.

"Walk well, Kadan."

Also he walks away, leaving her whole in his wake.

* * *

 _Created by Master Weaponsmith Wade of Denerim, this sword remains one of the most intriguing relics of the Fifth Blight. While there was certainly created from bone of the Archdemon itself, there seems to be another material melded within. Experts claim it as evidence of the God's remaining taint._ _Greenfang was commissioned for Warden-Commander Tasha Tabris of the Grey Wardens and, upon her death, donated by the Arling of Redcliffe to the Bannorn of the Alienage of Denerim. Its sister sword – Starfang – remaines in Redcliffe._


	5. pair.

**005.** _Pair._

* * *

Assan recognizes what's going on here. It's basic. The sort of thing he learned in a basket with a mother and brothers and sisters and hey. How to live. Everyone learns. And living things go in pairs. Bitch, dog, female, male. By the way. He needs one too. But back to the subject.

His elf and the human.

His elf is his. His and his alone. It has been like that since that place, since war and blood, even more now that they share it, share scent, share home. She is his. But. _But_. Everything comes in pairs and this being is _hers_. Assan doesn't bother to raise his head from his paws, the comfortable mattress underneath his body giving the impression to any outsider that the Mabari is little more than a calm pup. He watches though, brown eyes rolling over the human.

He doesn't smell like the bastard. The bastard had been nervousness and a light heart, strength but lacking some types of it, despair and something young and honeyed. Still growing. He doesn't smell like his elf either, all of her iron and green grass covered in vicious blood. This human is just different. Assan scoffs against his paws, raising his nose just a little. Closer. More deeply. Scents tell a lot about things.

 _Earth_ , that's the first. _Something like rock after rain_. It means change, slow change but change anyway. If you change, you can betray, if you can betray, he's not touching her. Assan remembers well how it was with the bastard. She trusted, she trusts easy at times – _maybe not easy, doesn't matter_. He remembers water that didn't fell and blood that didn't flow. Harm was there though, wounds underneath her skin. He's hers and she's his and he's not letting anyone do it again.

Rock's strong though. Maybe rock changes to fit instead?

"I am not leaving," the human speaks from his chair, elbows on knees, eyes right in front of him. "So I thought, perhaps you should know this. It will be permanent. And we should come to an arrangement."

Words are words, human. His eyes narrow, his lip raises and there are teeth and threats displayed in equal manner.

"She is a good woman, your owner." There he goes again. They don't understand. He can't explain. Nature doesn't work like _they_ want. Their kind is still foolish, young, needing help and guidance. _His_ kind adopts. Imprints. The Mabari stops giving the human a baleful eye and carries on. _Rock and something spicy, like the pies slipped underneath the table_. "She understands," _and it tastes like fire but not the one who consumes, that burns everything. Maybe his type of strength or. Or. To live, he wants to live, is that it?_ "You see all kinds of people when you are born as I was. You don't see many sacrificing as she did. It's just."

The human's talking to himself now and doesn't notice.

If he was two-legged, Assan would roll his eyes – just like his elf – but he's not. Instead he jumps from the bed, paws clicking against the floor as he comes near. The man doesn't back away. Doesn't move. Keeps silent with that odd calm gaze on him that he sees sometimes on _her_ , even when the Mabari snares, even when he growls, teeth against his skin and he could and would rip him apart in an instant if needed. Pairs, he and she, that's how it goes.

What else can he do? He wants fresh grass not salt, he wants her smiling and happy, not harmed.

Assan's head rests against the man's knees, a moment to taste the hand nearby, to feel the rock and the earth and the spring morning just after a storm. Commits it to memory. Trusts this human won't be like the other and the hundred others he protected her from.

When Tasha finally chooses to make her presence known, arms crossed over her chest and that scent of grass all around them – _really, human, pay more attention, she was just behind you_ – Assan is back on the bed, head on the blanket and the place that he's still not giving up. Sharing, not giving up.

"You do realize he isn't the one you should be having the conversation with?" His elf does that weird thing with lips to her pair and pulls away, humor in her voice as she sits by his side. Hand. Hand on his neck, that's the spot. "And you won't be able to bribe my father with meat and cookies."

Eh.

He's the one sleeping on her bed. He's the important one. The human's smart, he realizes that. That smile, see, his smile says a lot. Things come in pairs and this is hers. Fine. He'll be his too. His human.

But keep the bones coming.


	6. king.

**006.** _King._

* * *

The letter haunts him. Eamon speaks about a whole bunch of things – reconstruction, construction, Gold and more Gold, everything he could even begin to care about for the moment. Because of that letter. It lays underneath all others, you see, well covered, tightly packed and it's not even a long letter. Just a couple of lines – maybe a little more – a bunch of thanks, a lot of empty words and very well phrased nice orders. Not important. So totally to the bottom of the whole thing. Very bottom. Very deep. To be forgotten, Maker damnit.

Guess it's his own damned fault for giving them Amaranthine. He should have given them Redcliffe instead only that would kinda defeat the purpose because then, he'd have to give Amaranthine to the Arl who would lose the Arling and Teagan would leave and wouldn't that be a bummer. She doesn't want him to leave – _ew_ – and he doesn't want to leave – _dear Maker_ , _ew_.

Alistair doesn't want this letter to reach her hands. He owes her. His city is safe, the Archdemon is dead, his nightmares seem so much less frightening without the undertone of eternal damnation and the thousand darkspawn which litter the streets lay dead. He kind of owes her for that. She doesn't need to know this and. If he forgets it underneath a huge pile of paperwork, so be it. Everyone will be happier. They deserve that, don't they?

Unfortunately, Tasha has other ideas.

She doesn't knock nor does she announce herself before entering. Which is a shining giveaway that it is her and not some other random person with respect for his position. The clacking of the armor? Also a giveaway. The new longsword peeking over her shoulder, so not needed. And he needs to have a little talk with Warren about exactly who had the brilliant idea to arm her so quickly.

"Give it to me."

 _Eh…_?

He lived with this woman for almost a year and learned a few things. This look, coupled with that eyebrow and that stance it's either _I'm about to kill you, do as I say_ or _do as I say and I won't harm you_. They're very similar, so sue him.

"The letter from the Anderfels." Good freaking Maker, is she a bloody mind reader? "I know you have it. Give it to me."

His arms cross over his chest, feeling uncomfortable due to the lack of armor – a problem that she clearly doesn't have, covered in dragonbone as she is – and he tries to muster his best kingly look. Borrowed directly from Cailan. Which isn't the best role model but details, details.

"It could have been addressed to me," he says, also in his best commanding voice. "I am the King of Ferelden."

Tasha extends her hand and wiggles her armored fingers – _what's with all the armor, woman?_

"I know," she states simply. Wow, way to make him feel insignificant. "I made you into it. But that letter comes from the Anderfels to the Warden-Commander. Until further notice, that is what I am. You're no Grey Warden either. So give it to me."

Maker damnit, it was _Eamon_. No details had been given but _Eamon_ knows and Alistair can bet five of his hard earned thirty years that he knows exactly why the advisor told her this. One more chance and he'll be able to change his brother's mind, even _he_ can understand this. _…oy_. He is replacing Morrigan and insulting himself. That can't be good.

But her words are more effective than a punch and he obeys without even thinking about it. Within a moment, Alistair reaches for the pile of scrolls on his table and moves them around till the last, the very last, well hidden, a haunting presence for something so small. And her hands grasp it without warning, she begins reading and he deals with the largest amount of guilt he has ever felt in his life. There's a strong urge to wriggle his hands. He beats it down by gripping the edges of his chair. See? All honorable and kingly.

"No longer Acting-Commander," she sums it out loud, calm and at ease, eyes skimming through the document with the practice of someone who has been collecting scrolls all over the place. "Congratulations for your victory, brothers and sisters on the way to Amaranthine. Financial aid when required, our best regards. Hm, the First Warden. Doubt it but why not."

She doesn't seem surprised. She doesn't seem _surprised,_ what in the Maker's name?

"You were expecting this?" Alistair finds himself standing from his chair, leaning over his desk as if he's missing some detail of her face. "What about Shianni? And your dad? And, well. _Him_." Goddamnit, she may be flirting with his uncle – _just flirting, that's all they're doing, breathe_ – but he doesn't have to acknowledge it.

The elf smiles, very slowly, the kind of smile which is that close to being amused or calling him an idiot. "Big girl. Even bigger boy. Born in a family of warriors. We already knew this would happen eventually. The world doesn't turn safe just because we kill one big dragon. And I'm senior in Ferelden now. One plus one equals."

"But you seemed so." _At ease. Comfortable. As if the whole world's weight suddenly disappeared_.

"It's called pretending, your majesty. We're very good at it," Tasha continues not quite meeting his eyes. Her tone shifts and changes, turns reassuring in a heartbeat as she talks to some unknown audience. "Things will work out, don't worry, everything will be fine, oh no, your son and daughter are not lost and they will be found, just give us time." And back to normal. "Teagan knows how to do it really well for a nobleman. I picked it up along the way."

Alistair wishes again he was armored. Clenching fists when you're not, the nails actually hurt. He should cut them more often. And how womanly that sounds.

"You'll be going?"

Her eyes meet his and _yes, of course, don't be an idiot, Alistair_.

"So? What now?"

The letter is carefully folded and slipped in whatever place is left inside that armor of hers.

"Stand with me. Father will, so will Soris. I already have bridesmaids and I asked Jowan and Loghain to attend. They deserve it. Battling an Archdemon together is the sort of things that creates some respect." _Wow_ , stab right there. The elf doesn't seem to notice his uneasiness, continuing to speak in that calm controlled tone. If he didn't know her, Alistair would never think she was bothered. But he does, _he does._ "Zevran and Oghren too. And Mother Boann will leave Denerim to perform the ceremony. I still don't know how Teagan managed to convince her to walk to Redcliffe for this but."

The elf finally stops talking, giving him the time, a chance to react. This is a test for him alone and he's back being watched by every Templar in the building, every person telling him how to do and how to act and Maker help him if he didn't learn his lessons. But this is a test and an important one. All he has to do is.

"Yes."

Ignore how he hates Loghain, ignore how he failed them all and how he wishes the man to drop dead. Acknowledge that he was also wrong and stand by his sister. Like she did that day, sitting on the street.

"Yes, I can do that." A reassuring tone, a little happy because this is what forgiveness feels like. You know. Even if not everything's forgotten. "I mean, I want to do that. Really."

_Huh._

Her smile is prettier than he remembered.


	7. change.

**007.** _Change_

* * *

When a child, Shianni had been as certain of her future as she was of the existence of the Tree of the Alienage every time she stepped out of her house. Just as she knew her brother was a crybaby and her cousin had a penchant for fantasy stories only rivaled by her own for war stories and heroes. She was the leader of their band, the tomboy extraordinaire, constantly jumping walls and climbing trees like her life depended on it. Dresses, dolls, why would they matter? Tasha liked those. Soris liked figurines. Shianni liked wooden sticks and make-shift weapons. They were kids in a world contained by grey walls and that was just right.

Then the future became present and dresses were forgotten, shovels replacing figurines and weapons were divided and shared. They changed little. Soris was still inconstant, shining, always happy, shifting from one thing to another because everything would become boring. His sister was still the stubborn one. Walk forward, call attention, support and act, those were the things in which she thrived. She liked protection, she enjoyed the fight, even if without weapons. To bend was for others. And Tasha was the person right behind her, stating her opinion but, in the end, doing exactly what she was supposed to do.

Things do change though. Andraste shrugs, the Maker sneezes, the world tilts on its axis and, out of the blue, she has a whirlwind for a cousin.

First, she raids the palace and Shianni's gratitude has no bounds. She turns into a Warden and news of her death are steadfast and too repeated to be ignored. Only her very mortal ghost shows months after, blades in her hands and a will to not be denied that's definitely novelty. A destroyed city, a dead dragon, her _–_ of all people – made into a _Bann_ and a noble replacing her non-existent wedding ring. Maker above, she has to wonder just what Tasha will dare to do next. Find the Dalish, establish the Dales once more? It seems probable, if not likely.

Shianni's sure her cousin can't see the differences between both of her selves.

Tasha stands near the king and the noble, gleaming in the silver armor which she has been carrying around like a second skin. Her hair is longer, brushed but cut hazardously with a dagger, already covered in dust from the road. Tanning skin and getting darker by the day, a soft smile that seems permanent – _happy, almost childish_ – as she places two swords on her back. Movements so casual that make them seem jewelry, clothes, something a more normal woman would use.

The Tasha she knew loved the Alienage – even with all its faults – and remained behind as support. Only she now walks in a way that shows the paths they walk are no unknown. Goes back and forth between the different groups, mingles like noble born, always with a trailing Mabari by her feet. And Shianni's cousin is hidden underneath the Warden, so deep that the girl can only see it sparsely. A slap on the back of Soris' head, a kiss on Cyrion's cheek, inner jokes no human would get.

Shianni can't be prouder. Still. Still, where does that leave her now that her cousin is strong enough to stand by herself?

An armored arm takes her own carefully, trying not to harm her in the process. Suddenly, there's her Tasha all over again, armored, plated and armed like there's no tomorrow. "You've been so quiet, cousin. I'm sorry for dragging you this far."

Not more than Soris. That one's so afraid of saying anything wrong all over again that he barely whispers. She made sure he was. Dumb kid. They help him out and he dishes everything cowards did on them both? Really? No, better him to fear her and keep quiet. Order in her house, then the Bannorn. Bannorn. The idea's still laughable. And about leaving, well, anxiety doesn't bother her if she gets to see something else, learn something more. Tasha sounds serious though. Apologetic.

"It was necessary," she continues, her armor clinging a little uncomfortably against her flesh. "Teagan will be made Arl soon enough. To have him marry an elf is already enough of a regret for his people. To have him marry outside Redcliffe, it would be enough for an uprising."

"You don't have to worry about me." The issue is waved off and Shianni decides, there and then, that she won't have her cousin speaking to her as if she's one of the others. She's more. She's blood and family and her Tasha's definitely somewhere underneath. "A question though?" Her head turns slightly to the side, a tiny twisted smile because she is her cousin, she can do this. No one else will. "Why haven't you slept with the man yet?"

The elf underneath the Warden and the Warden herself stumble over nothing, almost dragging them both headfirst into the rocks beneath their feet.

"Seriously," Shianni continues airily. Oh look, he's listening in. A shame, really. "Do you need permission to jump his bones or something? Dear Maker, it's given freely, just get to it."

A gauntleted hand tries to silence her but it's the same as trying to stop time.

"I thought you didn't even like him!" Her cousin hisses, trying to keep the discussion between them. A futile effort. The assassin has a leer strong enough to be seen by all of Denerim and they have already passed Amaranthine a good week before. And the dwarf who snickers, the mage warden turning so red that it's a wonder he's not bursting into flames right into the path. Of course, the man himself. If his mind isn't directly in dark depraved places, she is a Qunari.

"Don't like his _race_ , almost all of it. He's not so bad. Just see." Wide wave with her free hand. "That's a fine ass."

His time to stumble. Maker, this is sort of fun. She should have done it before, perhaps even in front of Soris. It might make him laugh, push him out of his frightened repentant state.

"Cousin!"

"Fine rear end."

Distaste that's little more than a show and laughter just below the surface. The whirlwind stops and reacts just like the cousin Shianni knows, chuckles hidden on her fabric covered shoulder.

"You are an awful person. He's listening in, you know?" Making a poor show of not doing so too.

"I can see that. I should ask him the same question." Teagan makes a small detour and delves directly into conversation with Mother Boann. Maybe later. "And so is uncle. How can I still shock him when he found us arriving drunk and falling asleep under the table?"

Shianni can't be her shield anymore, can't be the front of battle. However, she can always remember her cousin where she comes from. Be her connection and roots. Or, generally, a person who can still get under her skin, make her act younger or just bother her. Family does that.

"I seem to think there are stories here that have yet to be shared," Zevran intervenes literally from nowhere, leer lightened to a mild gaze filled with innuendo, her other arm taken with just as much permission. "What is this about drinking all night?"

The Warden keeps her head well hidden and her laughter vibrates through Shianni's body like water.

"Try climbing roofs like that. In skirts. All _three_ of us."

So does her cousin.


	8. vows.

**008.** _Vows._ **  
**

* * *

Boann had lost the count of the times the Grand Cleric had wondered about her attachment to the Alienage. Wondered as in, insinuated that perhaps her purpose inside those stone walls was something much different than bringing the word of the Maker to the elven community. Insinuations, nothing more. Sticks and stones would hurt her, words from Andraste's representative on Denerim make her disappointed.

Elves were a free people whenever there was no human around. From her little hideout, the younger mother had seen how they interacted, normal people, happy people, so satisfied with every little gift. The Grand Cleric didn't see that. In comparison with the great Chantry, it seemed far more real.

And they took her time. To watch the woman who came to them with words of the Maker with suspicious gazes, to wait for that moment in which she'd turn on them. Never. Never, she had sworn in front of Andraste herself. Only contentment she would bring with her into that refuge. There was so much hatred in the world already. This is one of the many ways in which she is rewarded.

The couple seems content. The man in dark blues, standing tall, solemn in the Chantry's shadow but not indifferent. Boann can see it in the dim turn of his lips. He truly seems at ease. In the same manner is the woman by his side. All in white and warm colors, a dress similar to the one she had used that day but with faint differences. Just like her expression, no longer resigned or nervous. She just is.

They are polar opposites in every way she can imagine. From Denerim to that small village, the Mother has had time to evaluate as she never does, called at the last minute for yet another arranged marriage. This is choice. Freedom. Two worlds clashing against each other with so much strength, the one she also saw every time they walked together, hands not holding but close enough to touch with each step.

 _Will you come, Mother? It would mean the world to her_.

She had doubted but she had come and now, how could she do anything else but be grateful? They stand side by side, different as the worlds they came from but their smiles. The slight touch of bare hands. The gaze he lowers to her at times and the one she gifts him when he is distracted. It is right.

"In the name of the Maker, who brought us this world, and in whose name we say the Chant of Light." Their hands shift, his holding hers carefully before entwining. The momentary expression of anxiety fades from the bride's face and the Revered Mother breathes more easily. "I welcome you all in this joyous day."

A year, a whole year Boann has waited for this, never hoping it could come true. Shianni smiles in between what seems tears, so unlike her usual strong persona. Cyrion behind his daughter, so serious, so measuring – _it is all right, this is right, they are good people_ – with Soris whose bitterness seems to be finally fading. She would have never expected the others though. From the King to the former Teyrn, to mages and murderers. They stand with the couple, pleased as each can be according to their own personalities. A sharp contrast to Arl Eamon's features, etched in stone and as different from his son's innocent smile as the sun from the moon.

"All men are the work of our Maker's hands, from the lowest slaves, to the highest kings," she continues, focusing on her role, focusing on the couple, never mind that those words should be heard properly by the nobleman. "For all who walk in His sight are one but none can see as He does. We are different, we walk on the same roads by ourselves except by choice. And this is the choice you make here, of becoming one, of seeing as He does even if just one other person."

The smaller hand tightens momentarily, is the bride bothered again? Boann feels her lips move in the sacramental words, instinctual as breathing, even though the ones she speaks them to seem to become _distracted._ Tasha's fingers tighten again, Teagan's reply, his eyes lower to her and there's something going on. Something else. Something important said between both gazes.

Somewhere on the back, the King shifts in alarm and the Revered Mother can swear he is reaching for the sword on his back. In the same way, the Teyrn exchanges looks with the male mage, the Mabari tugging impatiently on the leash he never uses. There's _something_.

"Are you sure?" The Bann's voice almost inaudible near the elf's ear, close enough for the Mother to grasp. Even stranger, she can swear that expression on the elf's face is _amused_. "I will take that as a yes."

"Then we must hasten things, mustn't we?" Tasha comments mildly and _his_ smile has gone nowhere as well. Their attitudes are similar, reacting like they know what the other's thinking and what will do. "Mother, if you would forgive us."

Teagan turns to his bride, her hands now free to grasp his face and their foreheads touch tenderly. Both smiling, giving no explanation to the sudden rush everything is taking.

"I have all the reasons in the world to keep you." It is him who begins speaking, intense as a priest during its oath. "You listened, you always listened. You saved me and kept returning. You never feared even though I was everything you should hate. You were my friend when I needed and when I didn't. You argued with me, fought until I was so frustrated I had no words to describe it. And frankly, I know that part of you will never disappear. But you understand me, you hear me and I love you. All the parts that are lovely and all that aren't." Again, their smiles are images in a mirror, amusement and emotion in equal parts. "Will you accept me?"

Tasha doesn't reply. Instead one of her hands caresses his jaw, lightly, lightly and it's like they are the only ones there.

"This is my life, Teagan. I spend it in armor. On the roads and I can't sleep without swords by my bedside. But I love you, my foolish man." Teagan falters when she speaks those words, as if they are a surprise when they shouldn't. Maker, why does _she_ feel like crying? "I loved your words those first days. I loved how you waited that night. I loved how you didn't mind when I was irrational, when I went against you, all the time I wasn't near and you still kept me in your thoughts. I love you. So much that I feel this is too much and not deserved. Would you take me?"

They get lost in their own world, embracing like the space between them shouldn't exist. Tighter, more tightly and when they kiss it's like none around matters, none exists, chaste as it is. It makes her almost wish to turn her gaze aside, as an intruder to something precious and private.

"Guess that is not a no," he says, rather blandly considering the situation.

She chuckles in reply, fingers tightened behind his neck. "If you must, isn't that right?"

Maker above, that bubble around them bursts and they turn to her at the same time, different eyes with identical serious gazes while hers are filled with water and her throat seems to have been closed for the moment. Maker _. Maker above._

"Mother, will these vows suffice?"

Who would say no to that? They are already apart from whatever she is used to. This is just one more peculiarity added to the mix. "May the Maker bless and keep you." Chocked out but honest. "May His smile grace all the days of your lives and His light guide you to His side."

It is all they need. They kiss again, another mere peek on the lips before they push themselves apart and to their audience.

"Darkspawn," the Warden informs almost bluntly. "Figures they would invite themselves to my wedding."

Questions and shouts explode around them and she, herself, whispers them in her mind. _How does she know, isn't it all over, are they in danger_ but the calm that exudes from the group is contagious. It keeps her safe, it keeps her grounded even as the future Arl instructs everyone to leave for now, to wait patiently, _no, everything will be fine, you don't need to worry._

"It shouldn't reach the village?" Teagan asks upon return. All Wardens reply negatively, with words and otherwise, a flurry of movement all around them. Reaching for weapons, the shouts of command, the King and the Commander, the Queen behind them in almost apprehension, a flash of the Teyrn's face which speaks of the Hero she heard stories of. A small army.

It's Tasha who stops in front of her, though, her bare hands reaching for her shoulders.

"Thank you for coming, Mother. You should go inside now," she requests simply. "Your part is done."

"But…" It all went wrong again, can't she see? Like before. And before, Boann couldn't stop it. Being a servant of the Maker is to aid, not to watch as everyone is harmed. It bothers her though, apparently, not the small elf who actually seems happy. "What are you going to do?"

"Free myself from this dress and into armor, what else? Can't leave my bridesmaids to fight by themselves." The redhead's already armed, carrying a bow and swords, light armor pieces in her hands. She doesn't seem bothered either. _Terrible sense of timing, no?_ Nor does the King, he just seems annoyed, _really, couldn't they wait until tomorrow? I wanted to taste those pies, they'll get ruined_. Nor does the male mage, _why do we attract so many odd things all the time? I blame the Commander._ "This shouldn't last long. It's a fairly small group. The celebration should be in two hours, perhaps."

"Make it and a half," corrects the Bann's voice, already reaching for the shield and sword the King extends. "We will all need to bathe or none will stand near us."

" _Oh_. _Together_. Can I watch?"

"Maker's breath, Zevran. Give it a rest."

A sword and laughter are exchanged between the elves. So is a light helm, a bundle of clothing thrown into the mix by the Senior Enchanter. All around people disappear quickly into their houses, trusting the group, leaving their lives in their hands like it is usual.

"Was that a no?"

"Yes."

"Oh, so it was a yes?"

"Someone shut him up."

There is danger here. This wasn't a correct wedding again, a proper one. Their lives, those will never be normal either. Nonetheless, they will be all right, the Mother thinks, the Mother prays, fervently to make sure. It will be all right this time, puzzle pieces fitting properly into one another. She is certain.

"Mother." Shianni doesn't move into the safety of the Chantry, her eyes carefully following the group's movements as they leave, up the hill and to their destination. "We should enter and wait inside."

They should. They don't. Not until they return – almost two hours after – _laughing,_ of all possible actions, commending each other and singing even though the King stays away from the Teyrn and the mage keeps far from the Bann. They return from a stroll and everything's all right. _Look_. In the back, side by side, improvised weapons sheathed and entwined fingers.

It _is_ right.

 _One of the many ways she is rewarded. Boann thanks Him every day. He gives her so much_.


	9. lies.

**009.** _Lies._

* * *

They sit without worry or rush. The party is still going on, it will go for more hours and it is a pleasant time to rest from the crowd of well-wishers, those curious or simply awestruck. Her husband keeps them occupied like a good proper noble, his wife stands back and tries not to laugh at his expense. Why she chooses to rest by his side, that's anyone's guess. Tasha could be with the King, the one who keeps glaring at him like he will fall dead from the sheer pressure. With the Orlesian, the elf or the dwarf – _Leliana, Zevran, Oghren_. It's fine though. Loghain sits by his Commander and keeps his peace, accepting the calm that comes after a great storm.

She's happy but he knows it to be fleeting. It never lasts, this kind that survives in difficult times. They look around, watching the war that isn't over just yet. Rebuilding is necessary, the black blood in their veins shouts at them both, in peace _vigilance_ and their task will never be done.

It is the second time Loghain faces this type of setting, also by a new King's side. But Maric. Maric had been so different. He had been his King. A boy when they first met, a friend fighting side by side, the man who had taken the woman he wanted for himself, it was needed. Maric had been a king above any other in his mind. Cailan had been the opposite. A good man playing with his chess pieces, wishing to become the man his father had been. Loghain should have told him. He should. He couldn't do so because Maric had been tempered steel, by suffering and tears and hunger. Cailan was soft as silk, prickles on his skin, shallow cuts and a sheltered battleground. Cailan had been nothing.

This Alistair. He reserves judgment and keeps silent. He is a Kingmaker. They both are. It's not his place to say who should rule – and now he can admit it – or how.

"I received a letter from the Anderfells." Tasha's voice is quiet, barely heard above the commotion of the main group. It's not completely by chance. Though, by the Maker's name, it's her wedding. There are more appropriate moments to speak of these matters. He's also a hypocrite for thinking so when he would have done no less. "They want you to leave Ferelden. They say your presence here will undermine my authority. That no clear line of command can be established due to your reputation as the hero of River Dane."

Bullshit. Ferelden followed her, not him. Tasha made it loud and clear in the Landsmeet that he was nothing more than an armed man at the Wardens' service. They just want him out. Punished. Probably wondering why she didn't have him killed by the Archdemon, as it would keep their hands quite clean of his blood. But to leave. The former Teyrn can't deny something in him hurts at that. It is a punishment fit from Celene herself.

"I haven't sent my reply yet," the elf informs in between sips of her drink, tranquil as if talking about someone else's fate is something inconsequential. "Thought you would like to read it first. It isn't just my life on the line."

She has yet to learn the meaning of the word party. And so has he because Loghain wastes no time to take the vellum she extends to him, her familiar messy handwriting somewhat tamed, the missive short and to the point. Formal. The general has to read it twice, then once more, then another. The words have obviously been misread. They cannot be truthful.

"To the esteemed First Warden of the Grey Warden Order." Exactly why he reads them out loud to the person who was insane enough to write them. "I extend greetings in my name and my brothers dwelling in Ferelden. Your help and words were much anticipated and, for both, you have my personal gratitude. Also, of your words over my promotion, I gratefully acknowledge and will depart for Amaranthine at my earliest convenience. With me, I will take senior wardens Loghain and Jowan as King Alistair is otherwise engaged. Further correspondence should be addressed to Vigil's Keep at the Pilgrim's Road. Maker keep and guard you, your Grace. In peace, vigilance."

Even out loud, it is no better.

"Are you mad? This." His hand tries to crumble the vellum between its fingers, throw it at the stupid child he follows. Tasha ignores his annoyance with an irritating smile, hidden badly behind her cup. "This is little less than a declaration of war. Much anticipated? At _my_ earliest convenience? I will take my senior wardens? _Your Grace?_ You have added enough barbs for the man to retract his promotion by sheer irritation."

Another sip is accompanied by the same calm manner Tasha seems to have adopted since the battle with the Archdemon. She wrote this while drunk, it is the only explanation Loghain can find. He almost stands, almost shakes her like he would do with Anora would she be this stupid, almost calls her husband and father together since this is little less than political, if not literal, suicide.

"He won't," she speaks reassuringly, a chess game and a perfectly move in the words he holds. "This is public news. He might dislike me from now on but why would that matter to me?"

"You must obey him," Loghain tries to convince her, to teach her. This a girl from the streets, not Cauthrien, not someone born and bred for the lines of an army. In this, she is so ignorant. "Have you never followed orders, girl? He is your superior in command. You have no choice while in the order."

Tasha begins to become annoyed, her mask slipping with the tightened fingers around her cup. "No, I won't and no, he isn't. I must follow his _directives_ and attempt to judge their importance inside Ferelden. I serve the country, not some figure up wherever who didn't bother to come down when we were about to die." Her words are snapped, angered with all the tone of the alienage elf he met in Ostagar. Raised hackles and sharp claws. It sounds almost as if she speaks of another human. One who she has to call family. "He won't do anything against it. He can't. We ended a Blight, Loghain. Alistair rules here and he can throw us out as easily as he let us in. No Ferelden Warden will allow a foreign Commander. See? I know what I am doing."

She is prodding a sleeping dragon with a very short lance, that's the idiotic girl's doing.

Teagan steals her attention for a moment, staring at them from the middle of the crowd, wondering about her mood, Loghain would wager. But she makes no movement to request help as usual. Her hands place the cup aside as the girl turns solely to him, lacking armor and weapons and still looking every inch the brat he met so long before. "How about we focus on the real issue?"

Her eyes are blue, dark blue. Not chips of ice, not metal, no important metaphor. They are just blue, hard blue, the eyes of someone he sees in the mirror every day. They do the hard tasks, foray in the hard ground and deal with all the scum, all the waste which can't dirty their leader's hands. And when that's done, they pull back and continue out of sight.

He should be out of sight. That is the heart of the matter. The real issue, as she aptly put it.

"When the Orlesian gave us the blood. He said I would be sent away when this was over. It is over now." He cannot stay. The First Warden is right. Here, he represents the old system, everything that failed. Staying will undermine Alistair's rule, remember everything done between Denerim and the Coustlands."

"That was after he was the senior in Ferelden and before he jumped out of that tower." On the bravest, stupidest move the General had ever seen. What a waste, she seems to say with tightened hands, what an awful waste. "I'm not allowing them to send you to Orlais."

She doesn't stop to allow him to question _why_. She's on a roll, just like on the Landsmeet, proclaiming her hatred for him to anyone who would hear.

"They weren't there, Loghain. For all their talk of aid, for all their congratulations, they weren't there. They knew something was coming, something big and dangerous and they did little because of _politics_. Duncan was aware of the Archdemon, do you want to tell me older warriors, more experienced, couldn't find their way inside a country going insane?" The roof, hundreds bleeding, so much that the ground below their feet was stained red for what seemed eternity. The Archdemon and her order to stand down even though he was older and a traitor. "We fought. We did our best. You were there and didn't run away. You tried saving _me_. Fade if I'll allow your punishment to fall to someone who doesn't give a damn about us. You will atone here, you will fight here and Maker hear me, you will die right here."

His sentence is spoken once more by this wisp of a girl and accepted willingly. His self, months before, would be outraged beyond words.

"Besides," breathe in, breathe out, hatred covered behind layers of denial before the elf forces a smile, the same smile he saw at the end of the Landsmeet. No, not the same. Similar, softer, with a blunter edge. "What makes you think I won't make you suffer better than they ever would? I know what you did. I saw what you did. I suffered through it. And I am a woman. No man can be more spiteful than an angered woman."

No man who has met Anora can doubt those words. He is about to tell her so, foolishly as the Warden makes no secret of her dislike for the other woman, when Teagan appears out of nowhere. As if summoned. A hand extends in invitation and his words are for her alone, not for the man who almost killed his family. It is perfect timing, shattering the awkwardness of his implied gratitude. "If I may intrude, wife. Enough work for today. It is our wedding and you should be enjoying yourself."

Tasha's head moves so she can look behind him where too many gather, gossiping like there is no tomorrow. A normal event. And her skepticism is visible. "Do I have to? I am no courtesan to keep villagers entertained." She complains but stands anyway, patting her dress away with a cautious gesture before taking the proffered hand. "I prefer the darkspawn. They don't chatter like chickens."

"And that message will be sent for them in the morrow," is his reply. "They will be most pleased. Until then. I am not dealing with this alone."

They bicker like children, the one who dared to face him and the one who dared to defeat him. Those images can't add up with the man taking her arm or with the woman pretending to be bothered.

"We should have stayed in Denerim. If you will excuse us, Loghain. It seems I have my wedding to enjoy."

Teagan sighs. He could be laughing, the feeling is the same. "It is not that much of a sacrifice, Tasha."

"Says the noble born," the woman retorts easily. "You were raised saying pleasantries. You can do it in your sleep, I swear."

"Are you going to test it?"

And so they walk away forgetting all about him. Tasha had been there solely for this, for the letter in his hands that tells him he's not about to be thrown out of the one thing he has always defended. Stupid girl. Even stupider with her parting words.

"Good night, brother." Stupid foolish chit.

And Loghain is left to wonder. If he had asked, do you still hate me, do you still wish me to suffer? Would she have answered yes?

Probably.

But she would have been lying.


	10. selfishness.

**010.** _Selfishness._

* * *

It is awkward at first. A kiss in the back alley, touches against a wall and then a planned marriage, she had never been one to fool around. Especially when thrown into the middle of humans and constant war. This is awkward and marvelous all at once, fumbling in the dark even though there are still candles in the room, every movement uncomfortable and tentative. It makes her wonder, just in the beginning, if this isn't one more proof against their existence together. Tasha cannot avoid it. There is always that voice which is part her and part education, always repeating _elf_ and _human_ and how they don't belong in the same street never mind the same bed. Teagan appeases it though.

His hands move gently, more experienced, hold her like she is some piece of glass which will break with too much strength and takes the lead. Slide down, caress, kiss her when she seems unsure, show her that this isn't a battleground but something much more important, much sweeter and it is fine to give in and give in return. With each kiss, her little voice fades into the background, as he moves, grips her against him as if she's some sort of lifeline and all she can think is _I love_ you and how it feels right.

"Is there a moment in which we are asking too much?"

Skin against skin. There is no waterfall but there is no light either; they can safely assume it is outside. Underneath her ear, she can hear the steady drum of his heart just as she can feel his arm encircling her waist as if to make sure she is going nowhere. It all seems a miracle.

"Depends," he starts, familiar amusement all over his tone. Like the day he finally convinced her to stop being a fool. Her gratitude has no limits but she has tied herself to someone who thinks he knows better than her. All the time, silly man. "If you ask for the sky and the moon, I can't believe it will be possible for me to carry them home. I can try?"

The elf laughs against his flesh, fingers playing distractedly with his hair. It feels soft, a little courser like a soldier's is supposed to be but so much softer than hers. How foolish that sounds, how romantically foolish. Marriage was never supposed to be like this. Laughter and friendship, warm arms and round ears, no fear whatsoever as that is saved for later. Maker, she sounds like a fool herself.

"I would never ask for anything that elaborated." She shifts to look at his eyes, darker in the half-luminescence, so dark they look almost like hers. He also smiles, a calm lazy smile she had yet to know. Her hand lowers, traces his jaw, slides on his skin to draw his lips gently. Memorize them. By touch, by taste, until she can be a thousand miles away and remember clearly.

Another movement and she's draping herself over him, replacing the sheet they had discarded earlier on. His eyes never leave hers, that little smile not fading. Tasha finds herself wishing she could keep it there. Yes. A romantic fool, that is what she is becoming. A little fool and still she crosses her arms over his chest, doing little more than looking at him.

"What would you wish more?" Teagan asks in what almost seems a challenge. "If I could give you anything, what would you ask for?"

Once, Tasha had asked him the same thing. A long time before, when they were little more than strangers. He remembers it too, as his smile turns a little more amused, verging on thinking himself with the upper hand. She decides there and then he is far too amused.

Again her fingers trail, trace every feature of his face before following with her lips, gently, softly, almost not there.

"Tasha," it is a warning, her reply unsaid. She laughs against his cheek, somewhere along his neck and she can feel more than hear his quiet sigh. Inexperienced she may have been but she is no fool. Lower and he isn't exactly as comfortably, not nearly as focused as he was.

"They tell me," whispered against his collarbone while his hands move on her hips, gentle circles drawing patterns over her flesh in what she can swear to be fire. But she kisses his skin, focus on him alone and speaks against his flesh. "They tell me I am selfish."

A scar just below his neck, a little thing almost invisible, how curious. She finds another close to his heart, a dangerous injury. Another near his ribs, the right side. The many times he could have left this world and she would have never known this.

"You." Teagan flips their parts suddenly, pushes her against the bed and under him, a kiss that's not completely gentle, not completely innocent. They will never be again and she finds no reason to complain. "You need to stop saying those things," he states forcibly. "Whatever they say, whatever demands they do of you from now on, you have given enough already. I won't allow you to feel guilty about this."

All she sees are his eyes, dark, so dark they seem almost dangerous, almost worried, almost fearful and that curtain of strands which tickles her cheeks every time he leans forward.

"No, you don't understand," she interrupts him. That had not been her point. And, Maker help her, she won't remember how to continue if he continues to move because whatever this is, love or romance, companionship or something unnamable, it is addicting. "Because I am not just myself. I am many for too many. Because I swore."

Tasha decides his frown doesn't belong inside that room and especially not between the three curtains which surround them.

"But you see. In the chantry, I swore to another." Confused. Of course, he would be confused. He is but a man and she isn't the most normal woman he could have chosen. Her mind works in curves, knots and straight corners right into odd conclusions, didn't he know? "I swore I would fight for them," she continues, low, almost a whisper. "They would have the leader they want. And they have the Warden. But I swore to you before the Maker, you would get the woman, didn't I? So, my wish is."

He waits. Dark but not dangerous, not to her. On behalf of her and it's been some time since someone has bothered. It strikes her how lucky she is, to have all this to return to.

"Be selfish," she raises her hand to caress his face all over again, to push those strands to the side so she can see him better. For him to understand. "Do me a favor and be selfish. As much as you can dare, as much as possible."

There was probably more to be said but her last coherent thought is how she should have done this sooner before her husband discards words and makes her forget everything else.

* * *

When Tasha awakens in the morning, Teagan is no longer in their bed. Somewhere in the background she hears voices, some annoyance, sharp commands over a bark that speaks of Assan's presence nearby. She allows all sounds to pass right by her and burrows against the blankets which covered her at some point during the night. It's not every day she gets to oversleep. One more moment and she is just so close to slip away again when her husband returns, pushing the covers aside to slide next to her.

"You will be staying with me for the next month," he informs rather bluntly. "I have talked with the King and my brother, all the arrangements have been done." Talked or stated without waiting for a reply? "Loghain and your mage will be going to Soldier's Peak for the time being, they requested to meet someone. Assan is at the care of the Kennel master. Your family is housed within the castle and will be well looked after."

Might be the sleep but the elf can't think of anything else to keep track of.

"I will?"

"You will."

"Hm." Doesn't seem a bad idea at all to her sleep-muddled mind. "Fine."

His arms return to their original place around her waist, tucking her properly underneath his shin, tightly held like a children's favorite toy.

"It wasn't a request. Return to sleep, my wife."


	11. children.

**011.** _Children._

* * *

She dresses casually as always but there is no armor nearby for once. As she promised Teagan, the days spent in Rainesfere are for the elf and woman, not for the Warden. That one sleeps by her bed, in the armor stand which keeps her second skin and the swords which are her fangs. And if in Redcliffe she plays the part of the noble she wasn't born as, – the one she doesn't wish to be – in Rainesfere, there is a home to which she actually belongs to. Her husband makes sure of it.

There is one thing Tasha knows she will never be able to give Teagan. She sees it in his eyes when he wakes, senses it in his hand against her wrist during meals, listens in the undertone of his voice when he leaves her to join the younger soldiers in training. Poor man, he chose a Warden and Wardens live in endings, they are not good at beginnings. What they have is a continuation of the elf she was, the Warden has overtaken everything else. It has killed her children.

He wants them. He wants them so much that it's a constant nagging thought in the back of her mind. It wasn't like in the Alienage in which she saw it as a duty, a necessity of the community. Now that she can't, that she knows herself to barren and a dying desert, Tasha wishes more than anything that she could harbor what her husband wants so much. Not for her – she wouldn't be a good mother, all of her blunt and sharp, lacking the sweetness any child needs – but for him. It would make him happy. After all he has given her, Tasha wishes to gift him whatever she can.

Teagan looks up from the boy he is now teaching and waves at her, never mind his audience which seems to think their Bann endearing instead of foolish. Feeling a little foolish herself – because being suddenly cast into the role of a princess is still odd and unexpected – she raises a hand and waves back. His answering smile is the visual definition of the word 'care'.

"Aunt Tasha."

The elf doesn't react to the strange name, at first. She blinks slowly, confused, connects A with B, her brow furrowed in thin lines as she tries to make sense of a word which never bound to her name. It's a good thing the boy isn't pay her that much attention or her hesitation would have seemed ridiculous.

Connor takes a place by her side, small arms resting on the window shield and eyes on the same performance she has been watching.

"You're very quiet," Tasha knows nothing else to stay.

There had been an argument about Connor's presence in Rainesfere for longer than the marriage and a bigger one about how he didn't wish to stay in Redcliffe. It had colored each wall and filled every hallway with his father's voice and his mother's high pitch until he left with his uncle. Tasha could have explained everything to the couple – the things a stranger can see – but it's not her place. She already did enough for them and they wouldn't listen anyway. She isn't the Warden to them anymore. She is the elf who is suddenly part of their family; the odd piece to the puzzle, alien and unsuitable.

Which is funny, of course. There wouldn't be a family to speak of without her and Teagan's effort.

The reason behind Connor's actions is obvious to her. Redcliffe holds the rest of his innocence in its claws; it makes him remember the nightmares he keeps at night and the gazes he escapes from when in the Tower. He doesn't want either. Around his uncle – and aunt, she supposes with a grimace – he doesn't have to. They fought the same nightmares and know better than to force an issue which for all of them is still an open wound.

"You're staring," she comments blandly, resisting the odd instinct to rest a hand on that dark hair which is so much like hers. It's hard to control though. The boy – he is just a boy, never mind the age she reads peeking behind those blue eyes – doesn't move, he barely breathes as his eyes play over the same scenery she had been watching. Just because she is playing a normal woman for a few days, it doesn't mean Teagan is doing anything but being himself.

Slightly hypocritical.

Still, it is rather relaxing to leave the fighting to another, even if it consists solely of teaching young soldiers to hold their swords upright.

"You can fight better than him, can't you?"

Modesty aside and if she wants to be completely honest… well, yes. Before she realizes, Tasha is smiling, a little impish, the sort of reaction Shianni would get out of her. The boy looks serious, he _is_ being serious, waiting patiently – foot tapping against the floor – for her reply. So she, seriously, spends the next minutes pointing out little flaws that someone such as her – such as them, while he remains lithe and fast and not a mirror image of the males in his family – would be able to exploit.

Not everything in her is about taint related strength or more resistance built into her organism. She was a warrior (sort of one) long before she was a Warden. That she can teach.

Connor's eyes shine when he understands. Little by little, he gets excited, he asks more, grips her arm and suggests, points and gets involved and forgets he's a mage. Connor is a young boy, she observes, watching the dark haired boy speak a mile a minute. He deserves things like this, a break from reality and a dream in which he is a hero.

Without warning, she turns from the window and into her room. Her bed is unmade – no maid has tried entering her room, just in case their new lady takes too nicely to power and forces them to run around. She isn't someone to care about something like this. Kneeling by the bed, she palms the floor in search. Boots, a belt – she may be messy but Teagan is hardly better – and an item carefully hidden cradled in fabric.

It might be hidden but it's never far away from her. The silvery green surface winks at her when it flees its scabbard; it laughs with pure magic as soon as it touches her own skin.

Connor's eyes open wide, a little kid in front of an unexpected treat.

"It won't bite you. Hold it tightly. You're not strong enough for a one-handed grip just yet."

She places Greenfang into his hands, closes his fingers gently around the large handle until it feels comfortable. All the while, the elf reads him. In his eyes, she there is something which reminds her of Alistair. That nameless fear of doing something or learning and becoming more than society taught them and the wish to do it nevertheless. She was like this too.

Especially as he stares at the blade in his hands. She would look at it in the exact same way if it wasn't hers.

"This is useless," he mumbles, trying to push it back to its owner.

"Is it? Why?"

Explain so he, himself, can understand the flaws in his judgment.

"I'm a mage. I won't be able to use it. I'm not supposed to know."

Alistair in every undertone. _I wasn't raised as a noble, I won't be a good King, I am not supposed to rule._ Maker help her, what Isolde and Eamon have done to their children. Her parents were always poor but never, never was she shackled by their ideals. Marry, of course, be part of the community and yet, _aim where you want to walk, my girl, things fall in the exact place when the time comes._

Her hands release the sword and touch his shoulders, her body lowered to look in his eyes. Soon enough, she won't have to.

"One of my friends is the best mage I have ever seen. You have seen her before." Black hair, white skin, soulful eyes, stronger than many Tasha has met. "You should see her with a sword in her hands."

And like his uncle, Connor's stubborn. Her words are barely over and he's already ready to complain. Tasha silences him with a look.

"I'm a city elf."

"I know. I'm not stupid." There's the noble brat she first saw, down to the childish frown and crossed arms. "So what?"

But that boy would have never added those last words, not before Redcliffe's fall and especially not before the Fade.

"I wasn't supposed to learn either," she explains, tweaking his nose with a finger. Her hand is slapped away with a glare in the background. "And never would have if not for one person, someone very important to me. She thought I should learn and know it well. We don't know what tomorrow brings or how we can be tested."

Connor looks up in that serious manner, traces of the child he still is fading into nothing, even of the usual act he plays in front of others. This is the man trapped in the Fade, yelling loudly that he will save his father, never mind what anyone says against it.

"Do you want to learn or not?"

He smiles and she has her answer.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Teagan stops his task as soon as they enter the training ring. Without words, in that tilt of his eyebrow and shadow of a smile she reads the question. What is she doing when he told her to forget the Warden but for a moment?

"I am not working," she states immediately.

"I am not asking anything."

It is just heavily implied in his every gesture.

She'll explain everything to him later. She's not playing the Warden. She's playing herself, the girl who learned to hold a sword from someone none would expect, a woman who was so many things that, even now that Tasha occupies a place she never thought possible, she still believes Adaia was more. More special, more capable, more breathtaking. And she's emulating that. She plays a mother, _her_ mother.

"I'm playing mother."

Teagan gives her a wry smile as he moves to her side, arm comfortable around her waist. "You're playing favorite older sister. And I, for one, will not to be the one to explain this to Eamon."

Eamon already dislikes her. This is merely one reason to replace his imaginary ones.

With a little smile on her lips, Tasha settles against her husband, letting the boys marvel at the sword her nephew carries. He's not a mage then, he's one of them, one of the future soldiers who will take their place, future warriors and wardens. All in all, their future.

"Teagan?"

He hums an affirmative reply into her hair.

"We're having children."

"Already? I thought we would need a couple more attempts before," he slows down and decides perhaps joking can be done at a later date. His arm holds tighter, more comforting as his hand finds hers. "Yes. Yes, we are. They will have your eyes."

"They? As in more than one?"

"You did say children, my wife, not child."

He has been dreaming of this, he has been hoping and thinking and drawing his hopes in his dreams. Tasha knows the man she has married. And while she has no idea if her body will fight the taint long enough to give these dreams solid form, it is no reason to despair yet.

"Fine. But you won't be able to teach them sword fighting. The best of the two of us should have the honors."

"Excuse me?"

In the field, Connor looks back at them, catching little of their banter or reasons for laughter. He does know that he is partly to blame for the smiles on his uncle and aunt's faces and that is cause for celebration. For pride. He smiles also as he turns to the shining blade on his hands, trying to mimic the grip Tasha taught him.

The metal is warm beneath his touch.


End file.
